


Of Things Unsaid

by arcadian_dream



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-05
Updated: 2010-07-05
Packaged: 2017-10-10 09:46:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/98303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcadian_dream/pseuds/arcadian_dream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the midst of the war, Remus and Sirius can hardly see each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Things Unsaid

(They can hardly see each other).

Remus can smell the blood before he can see it. Its deep, warm notes cling to the air, filling his senses: his fists clench and unclench nervously; he swallows as his mouth fills with saliva.

He can smell the blood. He can taste it; sour on his tongue. And, as Sirius enters the flat that he and Remus share, Remus can see it: ribbons of impermanent crimson curling around Sirius' fingers; dried and crusty in the palm of his hand.

Remus doesn't ask whose blood it is, nor does he ask how it came to be on Sirius (he can't, he can't, he can't). It is enough, Remus thinks, to know that it isn't Sirius' blood.

It is enough.

Remus and Sirius say nothing to one another as Sirius kicks off his shoes; and Remus offers what he hopes is a consolatory smile (regardless of how wan it undoubtedly is). Sirius moves past, through the silence; thick and dour and trudges up down the narrow hallway. He leaves Remus standing, silent and still, in the company of blood's bitterness on his tongue, and laced with the questions Remus cannot ask.

___

All Sirius wants, when he walks into the flat that night is for Remus to ask him – to ask him –to ask him – what?

_Anything,_ he thinks: _Anything at all_.

He wants Remus to ask. He wants to be able to answer; to crack open the vault of all the things he has seen and done and had done to him while he's been away; to babble and cry and laugh (if he can remember how – can he? He doesn't know any more) and share and alleviate the weight of the war that is pushing him down, down, down; so far down he wonders if he'll ever be able to get up again. He wants the words to spill from his lips; he wants to cling to Remus as a deluge of thought and feeling washes over them both until it is no more than a trickle and they can emerge from its flood hand in hand; bright and shining and new.

But Remus needs to ask.

All he wants is for Remus to ask.

_Anything_.

___

Remus waits.

He waits for the sound or running water from the bathroom before following Sirius down the hallway.

Staring at the wood grain of the tattered timber bathroom door, Remus sighs. He wants to go in: to take Sirius up in his arms and scrub the blood from his hands and the dirt from his hair and hold him together; to hold them together.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he leans against the wall; resting his head against the cracked, peeling beige paint.

And he waits.

___

Stepping out of the shower, Sirius brushes the hair from his eyes. He runs his hands through long, dark locks, his fingertips flecking water all over the bathroom tiles. He stands before the mirror; he leans close. Peering at his reflection, Sirius runs his thumb over the rise of sharply defined cheekbones, glancing the greying skin beneath ashen eyes, searching the contours of his face for – for – for – what?

He doesn't know.

He doesn't know much anymore.

As he looks, he listens: and he hears the shuffle of Remus' footsteps, the rustle of his clothes and Sirius knows – he knows – that Remus has been waiting for him, just outside the door. He wants to ask : _why?_ (Why? Why? Why?).

But he doesn't.

And as he dries himself off, he thinks that maybe – maybe – it is enough to know that Remus was there.

(He will always be there).

It is enough.

___

Remus is standing by the bed when Sirius enters. He has not bothered to dress since his shower and Remus, taking his cue from Sirius, sets about loosening his trousers.

The clank and clatter of Remus' belt buckle tears through the silence of their bedroom; of all the things still unsaid.

Without a word, Sirius approaches. He slides his hand beneath Remus tee shirt; his palms, soft and warm, cup the shifting bones of Remus' shoulder blades before tugging his shirt off over his head. Sirius discards Remus' shirt, allowing it to fall from his fingertips to the floor; and Remus steps out of his trousers.

Standing, bare and silent, Remus and Sirius tentatively run their hands over one another's bodies: backs and arms and buttocks, before lips – as tentative as their fingertips – seek one another out. They kiss, deeply: the unasked and unanswered questions disappear, warded off by the momentary thoughtlessness of lips and tongues, warm and wet and familiar.

Still silent, save for the steady rhythm of soft breaths and grateful moans, Sirius rests his hands in the small of Remus' back, his fingers curving over the rise of his arse. He pulls Remus to him; bellies and thighs and hardening cocks brush against one another and Remus runs his own hands up over Sirius' slender back and neck, burying his hands in Sirius' hair. Moving against one another now, they tumble to the still-unmade bed.

The bed: their bed. It is the place in this war where war no longer matters; where the anxieties and fears permeating the air that they breathe dissipate, like mournful sighs held too long. It is a space uncluttered, where the things unsaid (never to be said; never) are pushed to the edges of their existence.

It is where they are still Remus and Sirius; where they will always and only be Remus and Sirius.

So they fall.

To the twisted sheets still caked with sweat and come and the scent of one another (the scent of them together; always together); swallowed by this, their space, where the questions cannot reach them.

There, their bodies speak in ways that they no longer can; talking, talking, talking, until each pulls the other into the oblivion of climax.

But tonight, in the quiet that follows (it is always so quiet; always), it is no longer enough. The peace they are searching for is denied them and the questions rise up, tearing the bed in two and now – now, the blood returns to Sirius' hands and the fear to Remus' eyes.

Now, they can hardly see each other.


End file.
